The gaps between calls get shorter.
'Eating is out for me, this week,'
he asserts, breathy and effete.
I think he is trying to be sexy.
'Is this some pathetic attempt
to seduce me, Nicholas?' I say, affecting
a cod Parisian accent, 'or something more
sinister?' A dial tone before I reach
my last syllable. The clever bastard.
I trace the call to the apartment downstairs.
When I confront him, a man in a string vest
eating grilled mushrooms on toast,
he is unrepentant. 'I found an absolute truth once,'
he boasts. 'Light slid off it. It was slick
as a larded marble.'
The absolute truth, surely, I think,
and smirk at this small victory.